


warm blood feels good

by eleadore



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Exhibitionism, Intercrural Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6396211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleadore/pseuds/eleadore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s stupid to try and hide anything from a vampire, isn’t it? Louis could track every stutter of his heartbeat from across the city, if he wanted. There’s no way he’s missed Harry’s reaction to him. A bloody blind idiot can’t have missed it. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Louis is a vampire. Harry's... obsessed. AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	warm blood feels good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mediaville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediaville/gifts).



> part of an ongoing challenge im doing with mediaville. this is round three, prompt: supernatural. check out the fic she wrote for it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6419629) and fics from previous rounds [here](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/2016)!

“Back so soon?” 

The flash of Perrie’s fangs suggest she’s just teasing, but Harry feels a little jolt of panic anyway. Is it too soon? He stayed away as long as he could, distracting himself with his friends and schoolwork and pulling so many extra shifts at the bakery that exhaustion put him to sleep every night. If he had dreams, he didn’t remember them. If they woke him up in the middle of the night, every night, heart in his teeth and come smeared all over his belly, he ignored it. 

He tried, anyway. He tries for nonchalance now, and suspects he’s about as successful. Perrie stamps the back of his hand, and he realizes the one he got last time hasn’t even faded. 

“You’re a regular, now,” Perrie laughs, and then quiets to a smile at whatever she reads on his face. “It’s not a bad thing. Just, like, pace yourself, you know? It’s easy to get all—” She waves a hand in the air, already given up on finding the word. “But we’re not going anywhere. And you don’t have to bleed every night, like. You can just hang out and look cute. Get your free drinks!” 

“Are they free?” Harry asks, pleased when his voice comes out dry. “I thought it was a drink for a—drink.” 

Perrie snorts. “They wish.” 

That’s easy enough to tell. Harry’s barely stepped inside and he can already feel eyes on him. He’s not vain enough to think it’s because of how fit he is; Niall told him once that vampires have a sixth sense for desperation, and if that’s true he must be lit like a fucking beacon. He’s never been this on-edge, every hair on his body standing on end, mouth wet and cock chubbed up from just the thought—the memory. 

It’s been four days. 

Perrie can sense it too. She must. Maybe that’s the reason for the warning, but Harry was never going to heed it. There’s a reason he came alone; he has a tendency to broadcast his latest obsessions, and you don’t have to be a vampire to pick up on it. He won’t be able to keep it from Liam for long, and he’s overprotective on a good day, like Harry’s still the five-year-old who moved in next door instead of an adult fully capable of making his own decisions. It’s only his distraction over a new girlfriend that’s kept Harry under the radar for now, and he plans to take full advantage of it while he can. So what if it seems like he’s gagging for it? He bloody _is._

That can be a turn-on. No one Harry’s been with before has ever complained about his eagerness and he’s never thought to be ashamed of it. He isn’t going to start now. 

— 

The set of his shoulders holds until he takes a seat at the bar and finds himself surrounded by unfamiliar faces. He’d become friends with the bartender last time, a surprisingly cheeky bloke named Ed, but he’s not here now, or if he is Harry can’t find him. The vampire who hands him his drink has a blank face and distracted eyes, skipping over Harry before he even has a chance to open his mouth. No one else approaches him, and it’s—strange, and strangely lonely. He expected to draw a crowd again, to get a little drunk on all the attention and let that bolster his courage. It’s not how he imagined, when he’d lain wide awake in his bed, night after night, wondering how it might go. He’d dance, he thought. Play to their curiosity for a while, let them get handsy. Not too handsy. And if they did, he’d pull away, and tell them: I’m waiting for someone. 

He wouldn’t have to wait for long. In the quiet comfort of his bedroom, it didn’t seem quite so stupid, the thought that he’d just _find_ him, that they’d have little spotlights over their heads like it happened in the movies, with everything else fading away. But the longer he sits here, nursing a drink he doesn’t even like and trying to act unbothered and not like he’s about to wither away, the stupider it sounds. 

Harry knows he’s a regular. _Practically lives here, that one,_ Ed told him, _don’t think I’ve ever worked a shift without seeing him around._ But Ed’s not here tonight, is he? Maybe he should have asked at the door; it would seem embarrassingly eager, and a little more like a stalker than Harry would like, but Perrie wouldn’t have teased him too much. And if she said no, he could have turned right back around and walked out, because what’s Harry doing here if _he_ isn’t? 

“Another?” The nameless bartender asks, nodding at Harry’s drink and sounding like he couldn’t possibly care any less. 

It’s the first thing anyone’s said to him in close to half an hour, and Harry’s face goes abruptly hot. He must look like a right tit. He can still feel people watching him, probably wondering what’s wrong with him that he’s sat alone in a crowded den, and the indignity of that is abruptly too much to bear. He could make the first move, meet someone on the dance floor, surely—he knows he’s not repulsive, despite what present evidence would suggest, and he could find someone to show him a good time if he tried, but he doesn’t _want_ to. He doesn’t want just anyone.

“No. Thanks,” he mumbles, leaves enough cash to cover his tab and heads for the door. Maybe it’s silly, to pack up and take off because things haven’t gone exactly how he wanted them to, but Harry doesn’t care. Liam would tell him to stop pouting, but Liam’s not here, so Harry sticks out his jaw and keeps his eyes down as he weaves through the crowd.

He’s barely made it a few feet before he knocks into someone hard enough to set him back. 

“Oi,” says the man he’s bumped into, “watch it,” and Harry looks up in time to catch familiar blue eyes. They look black in this light, but Harry knows they’re blue. Because—

“Louis,” he says, without even meaning to, and it’s only a shaky little breath, couldn’t be heard by human ears in the midst of all this noise. But Louis stops and glances back at him, and he looks—looks like he hasn’t got a clue who Harry is. Like he doesn’t remember. 

He doesn’t remember. 

Harry’s heart plummets. It’s only a second, maybe two, but it’s impossible to meet Louis’ eyes when Harry knows what’s written all over his face, so he ducks his head and tries to get his feet to move again. What’s left of his pride is screaming at him to find some dark corner to die in, but whatever pull drew him back to this place is stronger, and he can’t. He can’t leave when Louis is right in front of him. 

He runs a shaky hand through his hair, trying to come up with something to say that doesn’t sound as young as he feels. _How can you not remember me?_ Harry knows the answer, anyway. This place is crawling with King’s students looking for a thrill; Louis must be fawned over by dozens a night, ones that aren’t nearly as green or tongue-tied or desperate. There’s nothing unforgettable about him.

“Oh!” Louis snaps his fingers and Harry’s head snaps up. “Curly.” 

“It’s Harry,” Harry says, when his throat unsticks, and Louis’ mouth hooks up in a way he can’t read. Everything about him looks unyielding, from his hard eyes to the cut of his jaw, but Harry isn’t convinced. He’s felt the give of that skin, and not just in his dreams. 

“Harold,” Louis concedes. His eyes drag over Harry once before he makes a show of looking over his shoulder. “Fancy meeting you here. And all by your lonesome. Have your friends abandoned you again?” 

The way he sneers the word is familiar. Harry shakes his head no. “I didn’t bring them.” 

“Oh?”

“Took your advice,” Harry says, and wonders if he even remembers giving it. “They weren’t very good friends. Isn’t that what you said?” 

They weren’t really his friends, anyway, just mates from his law class who’d wheedled Harry into coming with and buying them two rounds before promptly leaving him to his own devices. Harry wasn’t surprised; he was a year younger, and they didn’t have much in common, and he knew well enough by now to know when he was being used. He didn’t mind, but Louis’ contempt had been a tangible thing. 

Was that why he’d approached him? Because Harry looked like he’d been left to the wolves? The thought of it being pity driving Louis makes something sour in Harry’s stomach, but if that’s what it was he’d gotten over it awfully quick. There wasn’t anything pitying about the way he sank his fangs into Harry’s neck. 

The bite has long since scabbed, even with Harry picking at it. He resists the urge to press against the leftover bruise and draw Louis’ eyes. It’s fading despite Harry’s constant attentions, so he’d foregone wearing a scarf even with the chill tonight, left the first three buttons of his shirt undone, but Louis hasn’t even glanced at his neck. 

Harry tries not to look as stung as he feels. 

Louis’ shrug is a loose, liquid thing. “Might’ve. Sounds like me.” 

Harry doesn’t know what to make of him. He looks exactly like he did that night: rawboned and immaculate, not a hair out of place, dressed head to toe in a black so pure it’s dizzying. Unbothered and beautiful. Inches away and entirely out of Harry’s reach. 

He steps closer and Harry’s heart leaps into his throat. The trio of drunken girls Louis narrowly avoids barrels past, but he stays close, so close Harry fancies he can smell him, that same elusive scent he’s been chasing in his dreams. It’s too subtle to put a name to, cruel in its delicacy. Harry tries not to be obvious about the shaky breath he takes, but it’s stupid to try and hide anything from a vampire, isn’t it? Louis could track every stutter of his heartbeat from across the city, if he wanted. There’s no way he’s missed Harry’s reaction to him. A bloody blind idiot can’t have missed it. 

It’s useless to play coy. So—so— 

“I wanted to thank you,” Harry blurts out, heat crawling up his face at the slow rise of Louis’ brows. “For the other night. I didn’t get a chance to—but it was, um.” Incredible. Life-changing. “Um. I wanted to.” 

“You came here to thank me?” Louis sounds amused, but his face is still inscrutable. “Well, that’s a first. Didn’t realize I was quite that good.” His smile is toothy, and the way his fangs lengthen is obscene. Harry sways into him helplessly, blood thumping just under his skin like it wants to find a way to Louis’ mouth. He’s never felt this far gone, so out of it already he almost doesn’t hear what Louis says next. 

“But if you’re looking for a repeat, I’ll have to disappoint. I’ve already had a drink.” 

Harry wishes he knew how not to display everything he feels on his face, but he never learned how, so he drops his eyes instead. It’s so stupid, too, because he doesn’t have any claim over a vampire he’s met once before and only knows the name of. Harry’s always been prone to fancy, and it was so easy to forget that they’re worlds apart. Jesus. He’s a _meal._ One in a long bloody line. 

“Did you really just want to thank me?” Louis’ laugh makes Harry flush, but he can’t worry about being humiliated when Louis is reaching out to touch him. His hand brushes against Harry’s cheek as he pulls a wayward curl. He likes Harry’s curls, tugged on them while he fed. The reminder makes Harry’s cock twitch. “Or did you want something else? I left you hanging last time, didn’t I?” His smile widens, fangs glinting as he leans in. He has the longest lashes Harry’s ever seen. “No, that’s not right. Didn’t you come in your pants?” 

His breath is hot enough to sear the thin skin of Harry’s upper lip. This close it hurts to look at him, so Harry closes his eyes. They’re not touching anymore, but he can feel Louis everywhere.

“Didn’t even have to touch you,” Louis murmurs, and for a wild second Harry believes all the stories about vampires reading your mind. In this moment it’d be a relief, because he doesn’t know how he can shape words when he’s this choked up with want, on the edge of something he’s been hurtling towards all night, for days, ever since— “But I can if you want,” Louis says, something playful in his voice that makes Harry think he’s laughing at him, still. “Is that it? Want me to touch you?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Harry says, because Louis isn’t—doing anything, he’s waiting, is he waiting for Harry to beg? There’s a please on the tip of his tongue, and he’d get down on his knees in front of everyone if that’s what Louis wanted, no hesitation, but right now he wants to taste the curl of Louis’ mouth and he’s close, so close it’s easy to lean in and just—kiss him. So he does. 

It’s a mistake. He knows it’s a mistake as soon as Louis’ mouth catches on his, shockingly soft for how unforgiving it can look, scruff just thick enough to rub Harry raw if he let it. Louis makes a noise, a little hitch in the back of his throat, and the kiss is dry, easy and undemanding, but Harry’s cock throbs and the ache spreads through his entire body, just like that. 

Louis’ skin warms under Harry’s palm. He thought he was addicted to the way Louis bled him, but this is so much worse. Better. _Worse._ He doesn’t want to stop. God. He could do this forever. 

“Oh.” Louis laughs into the kiss, a silent huff of breath before he pulls back. “You want _romance_.” His lip curls up over his teeth. Harry can’t think past the pounding in his head. “Afraid I don’t know much about that, love. You’ll have to settle for a fuck.”

“Here?” Harry asks dumbly. His mind skips ahead to drawing Louis out of the shadows and smuggling him back to the dorm, having him spread out on his tiny single bed under all the lights for Harry to explore. The club is such an extension of Louis that Harry can’t quite picture him outside of it, but he wants to. So badly. “Do you—” 

He doesn’t get a chance to finish because Louis is already walking away, weaving through the crowd like smoke. Harry stumbles after him, bumping into everyone Louis slips past, but he doesn’t even care to apologize, consumed by the worry of losing him somehow. Louis doesn’t glance back, not even once. Harry bites down on the urge to call after him. 

The club is only so big, but it feels like he’s been chasing after Louis for hours by the time he finally stops. They’re in one of the private lounges, as richly furnished as the rest of the place but considerably quieter, heavy drapes blocking out the noise and making it look smaller than it is—intimately claustrophobic. Everything is either red or black or bare, bone white. If Harry didn’t stick out like enough of a sore thumb in the club proper he bloody well does now, the loud, bright print on his shirt attracting looks from every corner. 

Louis takes a seat on one of the sofas in the centre of the room, legs spread and head back, all invitation. There’s no evidence of the kiss on his face, none of Harry’s flush and sore mouth. Harry wants to mark him up. Get on his lap and make a mess of his perfect hair and leave little reminders all over his skin. Harry was here. And here. And— 

But he can feel eyes on him now, the low murmur of conversation they’d walked in on dying as people stop to watch.

“Here?” Harry says silently, mouth dry. Louis cocks his head in a way that feels distinctly like a dare, so Harry takes a step, and another, until he’s standing right in front of him. “There’s people,” he says, more breath than sound, and Louis blinks. 

“So?” 

So—Jesus. Vampires aren’t shy, and neither is Harry, but this is more than a quick bleeding that ends in Harry making a mess of his pants. He said fuck, didn’t he? Is he going to bend Harry over the back of the couch then, or is Harry meant to ride him, back to chest and on display for anyone who cares enough to look up from their business? 

The twitch of Louis’ mouth decides him. 

He thinks it’s _funny_. He never stopped laughing at him, and that’s enough reason for Harry to swing a leg over and settle in his lap, letting his weight drop down on Louis all at once, their faces suddenly just inches apart. Louis’ eyes are blue again. 

Harry kisses him. This time Louis’ mouth yields to the swipe of his tongue, and everything turns wet and frantic, Harry’s entire body humming with want. The kiss is bitey even with Louis’ fangs withdrawn, and Harry loses himself in it, kisses him until his jaw begins to ache and some of the satisfaction he’s been craving finally settles in his belly. He wouldn’t stop for anything, chases Louis’ mouth when he pulls away, but then there’s a cool hand on his throat, the softest squeeze. 

“You like showing off,” Louis murmurs into the space between their mouths, breath stinging where his beard roughed Harry up. “I remember.” 

What he’s said doesn’t make any sense for long seconds, Harry’s attention caught so thoroughly between Louis’ mouth and Louis’ eyes and Louis Louis Louis, but then he sees it. 

There’s a woman by the pool table who isn’t even pretending to do anything but watch. Another against the wall who makes a show of tonguing at her fangs every time she takes a sip of her drink. A couple on the couch to the left whose eyes are hooked on Louis, and god, why wouldn’t they be? Why wouldn’t they watch? Harry gets to touch and some part of him still regrets being too close and overwhelmed to really _see_ Louis. All of him. How he looks and the way he moves. 

They’d had an audience last time too, and Harry flushes to think that Louis knows how hard that made him, how much faster it got him off. He’s not surprised Louis noticed, but doubts he has any idea how much of it had to do with him, the possessive edge that lit Harry up, why he wanted everyone to see. What he wanted them to see—how in that moment, Louis was his. 

“Give them a show, then,” Louis says against his ear. “Wouldn’t want them to get bored.” 

No one watching looks anything short of arrested, so Harry wonders if Louis isn’t referring to himself. Maybe if Harry wasn’t as drunk off the feel of his mouth he’d find it in him to be offended, because he’s a great kisser—everyone says so—but as it is all he wants is for Louis to lose some of that unshakable composition, feel even a fraction of what Harry feels. 

He likes Harry’s skin. He said, when he had Harry up against the wall, mouth on his throat, fangs out, he said: _Your skin is so soft._ So soft he dragged his mouth over it for ages, not-quite-kisses that made Harry feel like he was going to go out of his mind. He feels a little like that now, not quite lucid as he unbuttons his shirt and lets it slip off his shoulders. 

Louis doesn’t move. His eyes dip down for a second, or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Doesn’t matter, because Harry’s sick of waiting. He covers the hand resting at his throat with his own and drags it down his chest, past the jut of his collarbones and crazed thump of his heart. Louis’ fingers catch on a nipple and Harry can’t help the sound he makes, doesn’t even try to swallow it down.

“You said you’d touch me,” he says, because maybe Louis needs a reminder. 

“Did I?” 

There’s laughter from somewhere behind him, a low murmur of conversation he can’t make out. Most likely it has nothing to do with them but Harry’s face heats up anyway. He doesn’t care who’s listening, can’t take any more teasing. Louis’ mouth opens under his easy, and his hand twitches against Harry’s ribs, a barely-there brush that makes him gasp, makes him arch. He’s never been this desperate just to be touched, doesn’t know what he’d do if Louis ever got a hand on his cock—come, probably, just as soon as he reached for it—and the thought is as appealing as it is embarrassing. He wants Louis to make him come. He wants to make _Louis_ come. He wants— 

The sudden drag of nails down his back makes him startle. He breaks the kiss and twists around to see a woman retract her hand with a laugh just as Louis pulls him closer and snarls.

“Still not keen on sharing, then,” she says, long nails as red as her mouth. Harry noticed her before, for her blatant, unblinking stare, and now his eyes are drawn to her fangs, fully lowered and large enough to make him flinch. “You can’t have it both ways, you know.” She’s addressing Louis, but looking at Harry, gaze dropping from Harry’s mouth to his throat to his bare chest. “Say you want him all to yourself and then parade him around. I’m not known for my self-control.”

Harry’s heart skips a distressed beat. What does that mean? Louis’ face is impassive, as cold as Harry’s ever seen it, fangs out and eyes flat. He’s never looked less human. 

“You’re not known at all, Victoria,” he says evenly, relaxing back into the couch in a way that feels like an insult. “So kindly fuck off.” 

His hand barely rests on Harry’s hip, nothing of how tightly he’d gripped it moments ago. Harry doesn’t hear the woman’s response, doesn’t even notice her leave, eyes on Louis’ face, mind whirring. _You want him all to yourself._

“What did she mean?” he asks, even though he knows. He’s tingling; not just where they touch but all over, giddy feeling spreading from his chest like so many little sparks under his skin. _You want him all to yourself._ He purses his mouth to keep from smiling and Louis’ eyes drop to it before rising to meet Harry’s.

“Don’t think you know anything,” he warns, and maybe Harry should be a little more hesitant about baiting an already irate vampire, but. He can’t help it. 

“I know you want me,” he says, triumphant, and Louis’ lip curls up over his teeth. 

“I want a _drink._ ” 

“Thought you already had one,” Harry quips, and finds himself flat on his back, Louis’ hand on his throat. 

“Are we getting brave?” Louis asks, hovering over him with a curious look on his face. His hand twitches around Harry’s throat, just enough to remind him it’s there. “Is that a good idea, do you think?”

Harry surges up to kiss him and cuts his lip on a fang. The sting makes him hiss, and blood wells instantly, smears over Louis’ mouth before Harry falls back. For a beat they just stare at each other, surprise softening the harsh lines of Louis’ face, like for once Harry’s done something entirely unexpected. 

He’s the only thing in focus, and Harry refuses to blink. The rest of the room fades away, just like he thought it would, like he was waiting for. Then Louis leans down and tugs Harry’s bloody lip into his mouth. 

Harry moans. It’s shameless, so loud it rings in his ears. Louis’ hand tightens around his throat and he goes from sucking on Harry’s sore, bleeding lip to kissing him properly, hard and thorough, moving him how he wants, fucking his tongue into Harry’s mouth like he’s been waiting, too. When he pulls back there’s blood all over his chin. Harry’s lip throbs something fierce, a sharp, relentless sting of pain that has his cock drooling, straining against the confines of his jeans. He can’t stop tonguing at the cut, hooked on the metallic surge painting the inside of his mouth, and Louis can’t stop kissing him, pulling away only to kiss him again, and again, and again. 

He’s heavier than he looks, pinning Harry beneath his weight so effectively he can’t do much more than twitch his his hips up. Harry’s restless, torn; he wants to kick off his jeans and spread his legs, get Louis in between—inside, get him _inside_ —and he wants to be held down just like this, helpless, waiting to be used. Louis’ fangs lengthen when Harry throws his head back, long line of his neck on display, less invitation and more of a demand. 

The feel of Louis’ mouth against his throat makes him shudder. His entire body tenses in anticipation; it hurt, last time, so badly he thought he couldn’t take it, tried to wrench away from Louis’ vicious grip before it transformed into the most intense pleasure he’s ever felt. They say the first bite’s the worst, and Harry wants it badly enough that he shouldn’t fear it, but he still flinches at the touch of Louis’ fangs. 

“You want it?” Louis asks, and for a confused second Harry can’t understand why, because there’s no way he can’t tell just how _much_ Harry wants it, but then Louis drags his mouth down his throat, from the tender patch of skin just under his jaw to the dip between his collarbones. “Here?” His breath makes Harry’s nipples harden into tight, aching points, and Louis huffs out a laugh, flicking one with the very tip of his tongue. “Or here?” 

There’s no blue in his eyes. He moves down Harry’s body leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses over his chest and ribs and belly, the threat of his fangs making Harry twitch. 

“Here,” he murmurs, nipping at the soft little swell of Harry’s hips that no amount of time at the gym will vanquish, and then he bites, without warning, quick and precise. 

Harry cries out but Louis doesn’t act like he’s heard, pulling back to look at his work with a satisfied hum. The bite isn’t deep, and it bleeds slowly enough for Louis to lap at it with broad swipes of his tongue, soothing the sting before he bites again. 

“Fuck,” Harry gasps, twisting his hips away, fingers scrabbling at the slippery cushions. 

“No?” Louis looks up to blink at him. “Hm.” 

No—God, never _no_. Harry wishes he could make his voice work well enough to tell Louis it’s always going to be a yes, that he’ll take anything he gives him and beg for more, but Louis is already moving on, nosing at the trail of hair leading into his jeans, leaving streaks of red in his wake. Blood that gets away from his curious mouth collects at the waist of Harry’s jeans before rolling down to pool underneath him, leaving a wet, rapidly cooling trail that makes Harry squirm. 

Someone moans just as Louis pops the button on Harry’s jeans. He can’t tell where it came from, can’t drag his eyes away from Louis long enough, but the reminder that they’re not alone makes a flush steal all the way down to his chest. There’s nearly a dozen people in the room and they’re getting off on this—the sight of Louis taking off Harry’s jeans, leaving them hooked around his calves before climbing up his body again. 

Harry’s going to get fucked and people are going to watch. No, fuck, not people—vampires, ones who’d be more than willing to join in if Louis let them, fucking and bleeding both, but he won’t, because—because he wants Harry all to himself. He said so. He _warned them away._

Harry’s toes curl.

Louis’ hair is falling into his face. Harry did that, made a mess of it, and Louis’ dark eyes and bloody mouth turn him wild. Unpredictable. Harry wants to kiss him, but there’s something calculating about the way he’s looking down at Harry, something he’s waiting for. 

“Well?” Louis asks finally. “Where do you want it?”

The bites on Harry’s hip throb, but so does the rest of him. It feels like every inch of him is straining for Louis’ mouth, like he’s one giant pulse; he wants Louis’ mouth on his own, on his neck, on his cock—everywhere. How can Louis expect him to choose? 

“Wherever you want,” Harry manages to say, voice scratchy like he’s been screaming through a fantastic fuck instead of just being _teased_ , for hours, bloody _days_. “Whatever you want.” 

It doesn’t spur Louis into action like he expected. 

“Oh?” he asks, tonguing the corner of his mouth. “What if I wanted…” His hand ghosts over the bulge of Harry’s cock in his little grey briefs, a not-quite touch that has Harry whining before it settles on Harry’s thigh, tips of his fingers sliding into the crease of his leg. “Here?” 

He’s gentle, touch so light it tickles, flitting over the inside of Harry’s thigh where the skin is baby soft, achingly tender. Harry makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat and Louis clicks his tongue in disapproval. “You’re so sensitive. It would hurt like hell, you know. Worse than anything, at least at first.” He’s tracing a design into Harry’s skin, so careful about avoiding Harry’s straining cock. Harry—fuck, Harry might come anyway, just from the sound of his voice.

“But it’s my favourite spot,” Louis continues. “Hardly have to work for it, your body would pump the blood right into my mouth. Tastes better, too.” His fangs glint in the light when he smiles, stained a watery red. “Maybe it’s the pain. Makes it hard to stop, sometimes.” 

When his hand leaves Harry’s thigh it’s to trail up over his mauled hip, wound still bleeding sluggishly. Then he sets both hands on either side of Harry and crouches over him, head ducked down like they’re trading secrets, close enough to kiss. “Still want me to choose?” 

“Yes,” Harry says, even though he knows it’s the wrong answer, and Louis’ lips tighten in displeasure. He doesn’t care. “ _Yes._ Please.” 

Everything goes so quiet it feels like the entire room is holding its breath. Then Harry’s being flipped over, face pressed right into the cushions and lungs full of the scent of leather and traces of perfume. His cock throbs at the feel of Louis’ unforgiving hands and Harry grinds down helplessly. He can’t spread his legs how he wants, jeans still caught around his ankles, and with Louis holding him down there’s no way to get his knees under him, tilt his arse up. He’s trapped. Fuck, he might come. 

Louis’ fingers hook into the waist of his briefs and Harry moans. He can’t keep quiet. “Yes—yes, yes, fuck me, you can fuck me.” 

“Oh, I know,” Louis says. He sounds close, like he’s whispering in Harry’s ear, but Harry can’t feel him anywhere, not the weight of him, not even the brush of his clothes. “Think everyone knows by now, hm?” 

Harry’s face goes hot. He couldn’t be quiet if he tried, and it wouldn’t matter anyway, with vampires listening in. Surely they can smell it on him, hear the _yes_ in every frenzied beat of his heart. He wonders what kind of power Louis has, to keep them away even as he strips Harry down, but then Louis settles over him and all of Harry’s thoughts scatter. 

“Fuck,” Harry gasps, and squirms back into the hot press of Louis’ cock against his bare arse. It’s the only bit of skin on skin, like Louis pulled his jeans down just enough to take his cock out. He’s hard, leaving streaks of precome over the small of Harry’s back with every lazy roll of his hips, and so thick it has Harry clenching, but it’s not enough. Harry can feel denim against his sides, the backs of his thighs, and as soft as Louis’ shirt is at his back, it’s not nearly as soft as his skin. Harry wants _skin._

Maybe he makes a noise, or maybe Louis can read his mind after all, because what he gets is the press of Louis’ lips against his jaw and a little sigh. “You wanted me to choose.” His cock slips between Harry’s cheeks on every odd thrust, an awful tease that makes Harry’s insides knot. “Yeah? Whatever I want.” 

“You want to hump me?” Harry manages, and he means for it to sound biting but it comes out a whine. He thinks he could die from this, this _almost_. Louis laughs like he knows. 

“I want to drain you,” he says softly, and doesn’t wait for Harry to catch his breath. “I want to bleed you until you pass out and fuck you awake.” There’s a hand in Harry’s hair, tugging his head back. The rush of cold air stings his burning face. “I like it best when you’re weak. When you don’t quite know what’s happening. When you can’t get away.” His hand comes around to cradle Harry’s throat, bringing him up to his mouth. “Instinct, I suppose.” 

_Do it,_ Harry wants to say, but the words won’t come. The corner of his mind that isn’t preoccupied with his aching cock becomes frantic, because Louis no longer sounds amused, like this is all one big joke at Harry’s expense. He sounds—hungry. 

He presses an open-mouthed kiss to Harry’s throat and the next twitch of his hips has his cock fucking into the hot little space between Harry’s thighs. It’s shockingly intimate, somehow, even after everything, and Harry can’t hold in a gasp, heart rattling his ribcage. Louis drives his hips down and lets out a low, satisfied hum that Harry feels in every inch of his body. “That’s what I want,” he murmurs. “But this will do.” 

And then he sinks his teeth into Harry’s neck. 

For a second Harry can’t think of anything but trying to escape the violence of it, pain radiating from the bite in waves, growing bigger, stronger. He tenses, fingers curling into useless fists, and he cries out, a small, shaky noise that sounds doomed even to his own ears. He doesn’t know where he is or what’s happening, just that it _hurts_ , and he can’t stand it, he can’t— 

Louis’ fangs withdraw abruptly and he seals his mouth over the bite, taking one long pull and then another, in a rhythm that Harry realizes he knows. 

“Oh,” Harry gasps, “oh—” 

He needs to get closer. He’s bitten, bleeding, and Louis can’t possibly catch it all, not with the way Harry feels, like all the blood in his body is just spilling out of him, all over him, everywhere. Harry wants him to have it, wants to feed it to him, but Louis won’t let him move. Why won’t he let him— 

Something presses against his open mouth, dips in, curls over his tongue. Harry’s lips close around it on instinct, sucking—sucking on Louis’ fingers, that’s what they are. He doesn’t know why that grounds him, why it makes the fuzzy panic in his head recede, but it does, and with clarity comes so much feeling he can’t breathe for long, aching seconds. 

Louis drinks from him like it’s his due, slow and unhurried, blood leaking out of his mouth to collect in the dip of Harry’s collarbones. He’s fucking Harry’s thighs at the same pace, the hot drag of his cock made nearly unbearable by how empty Harry feels, how he can’t keep him in place, can’t do anything but twitch his hips up, desperate, but it’s good too, awful and perfect, and Harry’s going to come from it. 

Louis’ mouth is at his throat and everywhere at once. Harry’s apart from himself. Floating. Boneless. 

When he comes it feels like the first time, like something entirely new seizing him, wringing him dry. His stomach stays clenched, cock pulsing long after he’s run out of come, and it goes on and on and on, like Louis is drawing it out of him along with his blood. Maybe it even hurts a little, in its own way, and maybe it frightens him, but he can’t escape it. He can’t get away.

He doesn’t want to. 

—

The lounge is suffocatingly quiet when he comes to. His own sluggish heartbeat echoes in his ears and nearly lulls him back to sleep, but his skin feels stretched paper thin, distracting and achingly sensitive. It hurts to open his eyes, even to the darkness of the room, but he does, because maybe the silence is a deceptive one, and Louis is sat in one of the other armchairs, or getting a drink, or— 

He isn’t. Of course he isn’t. There’s no one here except Harry and his throbbing head. He’s clean and so is the couch; his pants are on and the top three buttons of his shirt undone. If it wasn’t for his sore mouth and the awful ache in his neck he’d think it was all a dream—and he’d dream it again, and again, for as long as it took him to muster up the courage to come back here. 

But Harry never remembers his dreams. He’s never going to forget this.

When he gets up his hip twinges. With so many reminders Harry almost doesn’t mind that he’s got nothing to show for being fucked—no ache or throb, not even the memory of Louis’ come slicking up the insides of his thighs. His mouth tastes like blood, but when he touches his neck all he finds are two neat little puncture wounds. They’re just shy of the first bite, so tender it makes warmth pool in his belly. This bite was deeper and the pain will last him longer—a week, at least, before it starts to fade and he starts to get desperate.

He won’t think about that now. Can’t, really, too weighed down by the bone-deep satisfaction that can only come from being so thoroughly used to do much more than fumble his way back to the club proper, high off of the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, fuck-stupid and heart-sore. 

The club is louder than he remembers. Bigger. As soon as he sees the crowd all he wants to do is retreat, but he doesn’t think he knows his way back to the lounge. He’s about to make a go of it anyway when someone grabs his arm.

“You alright, love?” 

Perrie’s face swims in and out of focus.

“Alright,” Harry says, but he must have been too slow to respond, because Perrie doesn’t look convinced. She’s eyeing his neck, and Harry’s hand comes up to cover the bite on instinct. “I wanted it,” he tells her. “It’s why I came.” 

That’s almost true. 

Perrie wrinkles her nose and tugs on his arm, leading him through the crowd. “I know,” she calls back. “I’m not trying to drive away good business, or anything. Just didn’t want you to burn out, you know.”

She says it like she’s seen it happen a million times. Maybe she has. A million Harrys become so obsessed with a vampire they’d let him do—anything. Whatever they wanted. That can’t be good for business. 

Or maybe that is the business. 

Perrie’s still talking. “Anyway, don’t let Louis get to you.” 

Harry stops. “You know him?”

“No,” Perrie says, then reconsiders. “Yes. Well, not—just, like, you know. How everyone knows him.”

Harry’s mouth sours. He’s not surprised to hear Louis is known—by everyone, apparently—but it still makes him stick out his jaw. He wonders if Louis was the reason behind all the warnings, if Perrie saw the mess he made of Harry the first night. What she sees when she looks at him now. Whether he’s just one more in a long line.

“Does he do that?” Harry asks before he can stop himself. They’re nearing the exit and Perrie’s walking too fast. His head’s fuzzy, but he wants to know. When Perrie looks back at him he irons the agitation from his voice. He’s not invested. Just curious. “What you said. Does he burn people out?” 

“He won’t do anything you don’t want,” Perrie says cautiously. “We take care of our bleeders.” When Harry stays silent her mouth twists like she’s wishing she hadn’t said anything at all. “He just—Louis likes to play games. Don’t take it serious.” 

The night’s a blur but Harry knows that much. Louis’ been playing with him since they met, and Harry’s been a rather eager toy. It’s cold outside, but Harry feels like he’s burning up from everything warring inside his chest, his aching body, the ghost of Louis’ mouth at his neck. He wants to turn around and hunt Louis down, make him confess all the things Harry knows. Make him admit that he wants him, and for more than a drink and an easy fuck. 

He doesn’t protest when Perrie steps out with him, hands him someone’s coat and hails him a cab, looking like she’d walk him home if she could. He’s been fielding strangers’ protectiveness since he was a kid. Maybe he reminds her of someone. Maybe it’s his baby face. Doesn’t matter, really—he’s used to people thinking they’ve got him all figured out. He’s even learned to see the value in it. 

_Louis likes to play games._

Well. Harry likes to win.

**Author's Note:**

> there'll be more from this universe. thanks for reading! you can find me on [tumblr](http://eleadore.tumblr.com/post/142048805006/warm-blood-feels-good-7k-rating-nc-17-pairing) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/eleadore)


End file.
